Fast Car
by UncleBrother
Summary: She didn't know where she was going; she wasn't sure of where she'd been. Until one fateful night, when she hung a right, and could never go back again.
1. Strange Encounters of the First Kind

My name is Santana Lopez, and I am an avid believer of ghosts.

Now, before you cast me off as some madwoman, just know that doing so would be nothing more than commonplace practice. For, you see, anyone I've confessed this not-so-subtle indulgence to has done the same. Blank stares have accompanied vacant faces, polite chuckles have preceded swift exits, and worried chatter has all too often drifted amongst the people I once held near and dear.

But no one's ever bothered for the more detailed, far more in depth account. If the majority of my confidantes hadn't been so quick to jump ship at the first hint of other worldly beings, then they would've come to understand that I never once mentioned your typical white-sheet apparition. Hell, I never really meant the spooky kind at all.

When I, Santana Lopez (because names are rather important, as I've learned), speak of or on an entity that has long since transposed this lifetime, I'm merely referring to the people we encounter each and every day. Those who cross our paths at odd points in our lives. The ones you'd swear that fate's hand had specifically picked and placed right on your door step.

When I, Santana Lopez, talk about ghosts, I'm referring to the people who swoop into our lives and act as a mirror. They not only show us who we're gradually becoming, but open the door to who we _could _one day be.

If you've got the time, I'd like to tell you about my experience. After all, the doctors have insisted that I record every detail of what happened. "A therapeutic means to a rather unsavory end" is what they're calling it. Me, I'm just going to do as I'm told.

I'm going to write about that night and every day following, and once all is said and done, I'm going to hope like hell that it makes sense.

* * *

"You're allowed to move with _a little _more purpose, you know."

The music blared too loudly, too rapidly, for the girl's words to elicit an immediate reaction. In fact, I was so entranced by the night club of Fifth Avenue's restroom ensemble that I was also oblivious to just about every external figure that passed all around us.

"_Seriously_, Rosario?"

It was damn near pitch black, mind the odd neon light that crept in through the frequently opening door. The restroom was packed—it always was on Thursday nights—and this girl and I (I forget her name) were forced to finagle in a lonely corner as opposed to an open stall.

I found myself laughing at "finagle" when an arm lashed out and connected with my shoulder. I blinked twice, unable to formulate words on account of the evening's antics. Thankfully, her index finger did the communicating. Back and forth it went between us, obviously trying to get the point across that we had long overshot the routine timeslot.

But then there was "finagle".

Again, she nudged me. My attention was then recaptured, but only momentarily, up until her tongue slivered outward. Atop the pink expanse of flesh sat a single, circular white tablet. As they always had when such an offer was extended, my senses kicked into overdrive and my intentions honed in. The Girl With No Name wanted me to act with purpose. In that moment, she'd given me all the motivation that I needed.

With little regard to the room's other occupants, I lunged straight for her mouth. Much like she often teased, the appendage with my prize tried slipping out of reach. It was a vain practice, considering that I was equally as quickly moving. My lips connected against hers, the smirk she bore most prevalent, and I claimed the pill with little more effort.

Having tasted all that was to come, my hands acted next. They fiercely pawed at her sides, drawing TGWNN's body in closer. Her raven hair fell in tufts around my own neck, a mere sentiment to our close proximity, and I soon gathered a handful. Like a rehearsed dance routine, she then attempted to flip our pair over. And like the tenured partner I'd become, I thwarted those efforts with more forward movement.

I assaulted her outstretched neck as best I could. Hot, heavy pants traveled the small distance and quickly formed beads of sweat against skin, a distraction necessary enough to creep my hand to the bottommost hem of her dress.

In clockwork fashion, she fidgeted when the thin lace cover was peeled back. I immediately ran a finger across the area she'd eventually beg for me to return to, and it took everything in TGWNN to not claw the absolute fuck out of my neck.

The air was stale, my hand coated in desire that I'd yet to personally experience in our increasingly frequent, yet compromising positions. Pinned against the crook of where wall met wall, the girl let out a whimper. I instantly froze, unsure of why the noise bothered me. Maybe it was too desperate, too needy. Then again, there was also this intimate quality about the sound. One reserved for two lovers in the privacy of their own home, conveying passionate emotions via the sincerest form of expression.

Whatever the case was, I said, "Please don't do that."

"Do what?" she grunted.

The question was followed by a swift plunge of my fingers into warmth, to which she again softly cried out. Too beyond repeating myself, I quickly weighed what few options existed. The first was to flip her body around, driving her so tightly into the wall that breathing would be far too strenuous a feat to accomplish, let alone making any noise.

Instead, though, I opted for the second, which was a hand fitted forcefully over her mouth. TGWNN must've found it to be somewhat risqué, because she smiled against my palm, moans growing louder. This only fueled me to some ungodly status, and I began moving as rapidly as possible.

Two fingers in; then three. Thumb moving briskly against her clit. Knee lodged underneath one of her thighs as to make the transition easier for both. Hand still plastered against that trap of a mouth that absolutely refused to do what I'd explicitly asked.

Thankfully, any and all noises were stifled by her orgasm. Instead of causing any further unnecessary ruckus, when she finally tipped over the edge, her breath hitched, sending her body crumpling forward.

I only caught it and held on long enough for her to come back to. When her head lifted, smile creeping along the edges of her mouth, I dug a hand into the gap that existed between her breasts. A small baggie filled with white residue came to fruition, and I immediately peeled the edges open, emptying a thin streak across the skin that rested before my eyes.

She giggled, I inhaled. Her head rested back against the nearest wall, and my top gum quickly became coated in the chalky substance.

"Consider giving me a call sometime," the girl said.

I grinned slyly, but only because I didn't have the nerve to tell her that being the girl-with-no-name subsequently made her the girl-with-no-phone-number.

The atmosphere was just as lively as I'd left it not thirty minutes before. Lowly beings drifted from cramped space to cramped space, downing their drinks with tireless energy. The bass music thumped, my newly heightened senses tried reciprocating. The funny thing was, however, that despite the actual tunes carrying minimal vibrations to my ear drums, each note became rather visual. That's what both the powder and pills did. They made everything move so quickly that it all seemed to slow down.

Like when Tony, the bartender, cocked an eyebrow my way. My hand barely floated through the air, holding what appeared to be a peace sign, signaling the number two. No sooner than I neared the counter were two small glasses slid across its polished wooden expanse.

They lit a fire in the back of my throat. In fact, for the briefest of moments, they reminded what it felt like to be human. To feel even the slightest twinge of internal pain.

Another peace sign later and the feeling disappeared.

Outside, Lima, Ohio shown in all its glory. That being, the muggy August air weighed down heavily. Even at roughly two, three o'clock in the morning, mosquitos ran rampant. The nightlife had since subsided into the deadened state that rested before me, and I dug feverishly into my pants pocket. Thirteen missed calls were broadcasted onscreen.

A text message read: _You know how I feel about you staying out on school nights._

Another: _Meet me at Breadstix for dinner._

The last: _Please come home, hija._

I sighed and shoved the remnants of my mother back to where they came from. She was back at it, making me feel guilty, and I simply wasn't having it. Especially since I would have gone to meet her, or I _would_ have gone home, if I had seen the messages earlier.

That's the way Maribel Lopez operated. She dug her way into your head and clamped on for dear life. What became even more substantial was that my mother had grown accustomed to believing her accusations. In fact, she said the most transit things with such conviction that even I began to take them as truth.

Her favorite—that I was a runner. And not your pound-the-pavement type, but more so quick to dodge any and all accountability. I was feeble in her eyes, though she'd long since given up in trying to see me as any different. "Weak" had become synonymous with Santana Lopez. A coward who'd forfeited her right to any lasting accreditation.

There was a slight air of reason in her admissions, though. Namely, that my newly acquired lifestyle was that of someone surviving a grave natural disaster. Neither good nor bad, right nor wrong. Just a simple girl trying to fuck up a little less than the next person.

If anyone had bothered asking, I might've told them the truth. That my cup was empty. That my spirit had been sucked clean by an exterior force whose face I couldn't place, let alone stare into. Maribel was right to assume that I was spending far too much time away from home. But I'd not been doing so in vain. I was simply trying to weed through the foggy tangle of my own mind.

Then again, I would've also ventured to say that it's very possible for a person to become lost in searching for themselves.

"That's all this is, Ms. Cruz," I mumbled in pawing the keys to my car. Climbing inside, I stared into the rearview mirror. "You're just trying to figure out where you're headed. To hell with anyone who can't keep up."

And with that, I sped off into the night.

* * *

The minutes that passed did so of their own accord. My mind had become lost in a foggy haze, and I failed in making sense of what was up and what was down. All I had become aware of was the white line that rested in the road's center, and how it both doubled and tripled in location.

I hung a right at the stoplight nearest Jefferson Street, though turning left would've led me straight to Maribel. Something about returning to the Lopez abode didn't particularly strike my fancy. So instead of stumbling inside, keen on hiding the sack currently nestled in my back pocket, I cranked the stereo as high as it would allow. Wind crept in through each window, engulfing my face.

Freedom is what it felt like. The clubs, their shady inhabitants, home, and all that being there entailed—none of those factors mattered. All that registered on the Santana Lopez Spectrum of Importance was the fact that I was incredibly alone. I was left to my own devices, and I'd never felt more comfortable in such a state.

I dared to close my eyes and soak in the sensation. My foot propelled me to yet another stoplight, where I barely slowed. And just as a glob of red transformed into the most pungent hue of green, a boisterous _thud _rang out.

* * *

Somewhat broken from my previous stupor, I threw the vehicle into park. Deer and other wildlife had always been a problem on the back roads of Ohio, and I figured that if the damage was minimal, I would have no problem in asking my father to foot the repair bill.

In rounding the front, though, headlights on their brightest setting, a quick survey proved problems of a much larger measure. I mean, when was the last time anyone's seen a creature of the woods that walked on two legs and possessed long, flowing blonde hair?

It took roughly twelve seconds for the panic to set in. The creature, a girl, lay sprawled out on the ground. She seemed to be teetering between consciousness and sleep when the latter suddenly won over. Face first on the pavement, I considered that a getaway wouldn't be nearly as difficult if she'd been capable of paying attention.

Unfortunately, the thought of becoming an accessory to someone's death was slightly unethical, even to my hindered rationale. The instance was beginning to take its sobering toll, but the lull that still existed managed to double alongside the adrenaline of being caught in a crisis, and with those elements working in tandem, I lifted the girl. She was tall, had a decent build, and fit awkwardly into the backseat of my car.

I slammed to a halt in the parking lot of a nearby gas station. Unbeknownst to my current train of thought, tears were falling freely. No one was around to witness the spectacle. If they had been, I would've appeared as nothing more than your average high-schooler having a meltdown in the front seat of her car. They might have considered it to be the aftermath of a bad breakup.

Never this, though. Never this.

I entertained the idea of calling Maribel, who would undoubtedly still be awake, anxiously awaiting my return. But reaching out to her under those circumstances would've been too low down, even for me. After all, I'd only been brushing her off religiously over the past month. She would have been elated to hear my voice, or to know that I was still as much her child as ever; still in desperate need of a mother's unmatched knowledge.

Hospitals were too messy. They'd be filled with questions and people whose instincts would know to exploit my increasingly bloodshot eyes.

Something had led me astray that night, this much is certain, and it continued in doing so as I remained idle in the gas station parking lot.

Dawn crept in soon enough. My back was plastered against leather, baking in the scorching sun that had long since risen. On a whim, I turned, half expecting to see the mysterious figure lying lifeless in the back seat. Without prior consent and per the most ravishing force known to man, I'd already accepted my fate.

Maybe it was a sign of what was to come, of the uncertainty that my life would soon be plagued with, but it seemed as though the universe was throwing yours truly a bone. Because as my eyes strewn across the backmost leather interior, lips dripping with explanations and heartfelt apologies, a vast emptiness succumbed me just as quickly.

Like a ghost, the girl had vanished.

* * *

Hangovers have, and always will be, the individual straws that broke my back. They are the reasons I'd long vowed to give up eccentric, on-the-go lifestyles. In fact, accompanying a pulsating headache and surge of vomit that often tickled the back of my throat, threatening to explode without a moment's notice, hangovers were one Santana Lopez's reason for getting out of bed each morning.

But the late afternoon after that fateful night, after I'd stumbled in and crashed into bed, was something else entirely. Sure, the usual side effects were still prevalent, but a foreign sense of urgency rested atop my skin. It scratched and it itched. It made well for a particularly ill-fitting, fleshed-colored skin suit.

"Good evening, dear," Maribel sheepishly muttered, lingering in the upstairs doorway. "I suspect you won't be joining me for dinner."

I groaned as loudly as physically possible. Remember what I said about the guilt trips? Well, there was one in its natural habitat.

She was a lonely woman, constantly vying for the breadcrumbs of company others were throwing out. I, serving as the only offspring to this decrepit soul, was the likely candidate. But as I've said before, Santana Lopez has not once been in the business of mending others.

Sooner or later, Maribel would have to learn that I could soothe her spirit, that I could keep Dad from going on his frequent "business trips", no more than I could keep the sun from setting.

Still, though, I rose from bed. The kitchen smells were nauseating, and yet I continued venturing downstairs. If it meant pretending that the night before hadn't occurred, then I would've trekked to the ends of this earth.

"I must say," she began, scooping piles of mushy potatoes onto my plate, "that your return home was a bit of a surprise. If I'd of known, then I assure that your entry would've been _much _easier."

Passive aggressive. Her strong suit. "Forgot my key is all," I offered with a mouthful.

"You broke a window, Santana," she snapped more insistently. "Again."

Surely enough, there was a gaping hole in our front wall. The glass pane possessed a jagged cut-out, and I found myself somewhat intrigued by the sight. Thought I couldn't recall the incident, there was a certain twinge of pain that coursed throughout my left wrist. And much like the wounded animal that I was, I offered a simple, "Sorry."

"No, you're not." Maribel smugly winked. "Mother's intuition."

I planned on coming back with a snarky remark, but a frolicking shadow instantly captured my attention. It danced quickly along the back kitchen wall, along the den's fireplace mantle, and back again. Illuminated by the interior lights, it rapidly grew and dwindled in size.

Maribel probably would've noticed the spectacle had she not been ranting on and on and on about the dangers of this and that. It was exhausting.

Anyway, the shadow's source proved itself to be carrying on all too joyously, for a series of _boom, crash, _and _bangs _sounded from just outside. I sprinted up and to the doorway, utterly oblivious to what nighttime shadowy threats could mean, only to find a lanky character flopping around on my porch like a fish out of water. Back and forth, over and under, it moved.

"Are you—" I started, only to be cut off when the fish took on new life.

She hopped up in one fluid motion, smile plastered across her face. A hand hesitantly made its way outward, but as an afterthought, retracted.

The girl then lifted her head fully for the first time since our encounter, and two hauntingly familiar blue eyes silenced me beyond submission.

A deep, reddened gash rested just above her brow. I considered turning on a heel and avoiding any further confrontation altogether, but the spritely character was back at her eager methods. She danced what felt like a twelve-minute jig, seemingly jubilant about (something?), all while digging into her back pocket.

Seconds later, my face was floating through the air on a small plastic rectangle. "You stole my license?"

She appeared somewhat confused. "You hit me with a car?"

Instinctively, I lashed out for her arm, dragging the gathered limb across my front lawn. Nearest the street, under the cover of but one flickering light, I released and folded both arms. "No one's going to believe a word you say."

"And I'm not trying to convince anyone of _anything_, either," she added whimsically, playing off a state of faux-offense. "Even if you were _clearly _intoxicated and decided that holding a stranger captive in your car was a bright idea."

I could've smacked her right then and there. And I would have, too, if Maribel hadn't again made a grand entrance. The woman approached our pair like a ballerina skating on a rink made of clouds.

The blonde watched with great enthusiasm.

"I assume that all's well on the Lopez front?" Maribel asked suspiciously.

I nodded, attempting to shoo her away. But the girl was unrelenting, like a stray puppy. She bobbed up and down, so obviously high off of life. It took damn near forever for her to settle into one place. And when she finally did, her hand shot back out. It engulfed Maribel's right, relaxing as the girl cleared her throat.

"You'll have to forgive me, as I am not usually so succumbed with attention as to forget my manners," she said with an airy verve. Then, following an ever so sly grin, she hummed out, "My name is Brittany Susan Pierce, and I have a feeling that your daughter and I are about to become _really _good friends."


	2. Thunder and Lightning

"May I use your restroom?"

Maribel seemed all for the idea, fluttering her hand as to allow Brittany entrance into our home. My gut refuted the idea, however, and I quickly stepped in to obstruct her path. "I'm sure _your _bathroom is perfectly suitable."

Brittany shook her head insistently. "Can't."

"And why not?"

She sighed, twiddling her thumbs in a circular motion. Her head dipped like a dog's tail between its hind legs. "Gram and I currently aren't on speaking terms. You see, she's a Buddhist, and I made the mistake of interrupting one of her meditation sessions."

Confused, I asked, "Aren't Buddhists supposed to be, like, uber forgiving?"

"Not when they're setting out to break world records."

Even Maribel's face contorted, the sign of someone thrown for a loop. There was no denying that Brittany's rationale was faulty and made absolutely no sense. She seemed utterly convinced, though. But since the intrusion of my dwelling was not about to be justified via menial religious stigmas, I dared to pry further. "Records?"

The blonde grinned as though she'd been waiting for one of us to ask the entire time. "Greatest amount of time spent meditating in one period. Three weeks now, she's been at it. Lying back, stiff as a board. I would say 'calm as a Hindu cow', too, but I think that's breaking the rules."

A disturbing chill rippled along my spine. Given the girl's overall persona, and factoring in her general delusional state of being, I sensed that something was seriously the matter.

Instead of berating her, I merely ventured inside to collect my keys. Both women remained outside as I clicked the vehicle's locks twice, motioned with my hand, and said, "Let's take a ride."

* * *

It took the police six minutes to arrive and roughly one-and-a-half to pronounce the woman dead.

The house smelled rancid, what with stacks of old, musty newspapers littering its floors and, you know, a decaying body. Brittany had been telling the truth, though. Her former grandmother lay cold and rigid in her reclining chair. The color was drained from her skin, giving her a ghostly appeal.

Brittany was quickly hounded by the local authorities, and considering how too quickly the events were unfolding, I was forced into a position of standing by, helpless as to what was to come.

Even more to my chagrin, I applied a skill inherent to only one of the Lopez women. One first acquired as a young girl, back when Dad's frequent outings were becoming more noticeable. It was honed throughout the years as a defense tactic. When he came to visit, my senses would be newly heightened. I would stand off and watch as he and Maribel interacted, picking up on the mannerisms of both parents. I even remember once reading that a person's eyes within the first five seconds of encountering practically any situation would give away their truest feelings.

Maribel's would light up at the sight of a man she'd married young. Dad's would die off like a candle being doused with water.

Anyway, I enforced this maneuver upon Brittany. Two deep pools of blue showed virtually no emotion when approached with harsh questions as to her recent whereabouts and general affiliation to the newly deceased. Five seconds passed and she settled into herself. In fact, like a seasoned actor, she played the frightened, grieving teenager for all that it was worth.

"My heart is breaking, mi amor," Maribel muttered in solemnly approaching me from behind. "This is something that no child should ever have to experience."

I remained quiet, detached, as to measure what Maribel and I were matching ourselves against. Again in defense mode.

The process lasted for the better part of an hour, but the authorities came to a rather unflattering resolution. Considering Brittany's age, a whopping seventeen-years-old, she'd have to be placed in the care of someone qualified. At least for the next few months, until she was legal.

An air of unrest seemed to wash over those involved. The officer in charge, a gruff man, appeared inconvenienced by the past hour. His breathy sighs suggested that contacting any form of Social Services at this hour would be more a headache than service to a person in need. And only after a few moments' worth of convincing silence did he move to begin all that Brittany's relocation entailed.

That's when Maribel acted. "We have a spare bedroom," she mentioned defiantly. "I'm confident that Brittany will find our home to be perfectly suitable in fulfilling her needs for the next little while."

The officer smiled, lowering a cellphone from his ear. I, on the other hand, felt no such relief. In fact, I went as far as to snatch Maribel's arm in the same fashion that I had done to Brittany when she first arrived. The woman and I marched yards away.

"No, no, no," I grunted. "A thousand times fucking _no_."

"What's the issue, Santana? Just think of it as a prolonged sleepover."

"With someone that we know _nothing _about," I spat viciously. "Hell, she could be an axe murderer."

Against the night, blue and red lights flickered silently. With more verve, on the other hand, a voice rang out against the dust that was only beginning to settle. "Not an axe murderer! And I'm quite convinced that we'll _hit _it off swimmingly!"

I glanced over my shoulder, finding the blonde bearing a toothy grin. She was so smug, so sure in the time of uncertainty. Maribel, too, even, with her honest eyes. The time for all lying was now, and yet she appeared rather dead set. Fifty-plus years had added age to her features, and somewhere in between the sagging and wrinkled skin, desperation shown with a new light.

For a moment, I considered that Maribel had only proposed the idea as a means of acquiring some company. As I've mentioned, she was a lonely woman. Having not entirely accepted the abandonment that loomed around our home, lingered in the hallways, and littered the family portraits, her presence was lacking. That being said, she was unknowingly looking to plaster over the Dad-shaped holes that time had punched into the walls, and Brittany filled that void.

I despised myself for ever pitying Maribel. Detested the taste it left in my mouth. But still, with a hefty groan, I turned to near the group that rested just behind. Staring into the blonde's eyes, I scoured. For an ounce of insincerity, a shred of malice.

None existed. Nothing at all.

My arms folded, a gesture of agreement. And to Brittany, I mumbled, "A few months on the couch is all you get. And the _moment_ you even _begin _to consider pulling any kind of stunt, all that you _think _you know will no longer hold water. Agreed?"

Thankfully, instead of incriminating ourselves in the least, we both simply stared ahead. And in a matter of seconds, the girl nodded.

* * *

A week into her stay, and Brittany was feverishly maneuvering around our den. She'd obviously already grown accustomed to freely floating through the house, and tonight was no different. Maribel was pathetically stowed away in her upstairs bedroom.

"For someone who was so desperately in need of a place to stay, you sure don't stay for very long," I pointed out.

It was enough to steer her attention away from the small backpack she'd been digging into. "Shower, shit, and shave," she responded in a distracted sort of way. "That's the motto, right?"

I couldn't tell if Brittany was trying to be funny, but I sure as hell knew that no one was laughing. Not me, particularly. But as I opened my mouth to fire back a quip that had been harvesting for the better part of eighteen years, the blonde threw up a dismissive hand. "Look, Santana. I work. In fact, I'm the lead stocker at your friendly neighborhood Gas-N-Go. And as of seven minutes ago, I'm terribly, terribly late. So if there's any more small talk that need be shared, I suggest you get to it."

She sounded fierce and highly perturbed. I guess having someone voice their agitation toward my speaking wasn't something I was used to—what with Maribel being so desperate for human interaction and the like. It suddenly dawned on me that my one shot of forming an acquaintanceship with someone I wouldn't be forced to sing alongside was quickly dissipating.

So, through an equal mix of both urgency and pride, I said, "I'll get you there."

My car was fast enough to make it up the road in a matter of minutes. No words were exchanged, but I could tell that Brittany was grateful. And in the hustle and bustle of getting from point A to B, I also failed to mention the endowment I felt compelled to uphold in sticking around for as long as her shift lasted.

Thankfully, a few nights ago, Brittany didn't have the nerve to swipe my fake ID.

The hours into early morning droned on as I, with the help of a cheap twelve-pack, teetered between consciousness and sleep. Only once or twice did the blonde assailant pop into my head, though my being there was purely of her doing.

And it would've remained as such if, as the sun began to break above the horizon, there had not been a resounding _thud_. A balled fist met the window as I began to roll it down.

"Drunk much?" the voice asked.

My head shook of its own accord. "Hungry," I replied, eyes struggling to remain open. "Dinner?"

"Not a chance," Brittany quickly cooed, sounding somewhat amused in rejecting me. "But I could _totally _go for some breakfast."

* * *

"Three whole _months_?"

"Sure thing. An entire summer spent lost in the sewers."

Even I found myself chuckling. Despite some of her rather unsavory qualities, Brittany was quirky. And not in the neurotic sense, necessarily, but more so in a way that made you feel slightly comfortable. She came across as someone who put a high value on protecting the smaller, more menial aspects of this life.

Parallel to our position atop a ledge overlooking one of Lima's lowlier lakes, a lone canoe traveled across the vast expanse of water. A young man and woman quietly sat as the former rowed them farther and farther toward the body's center.

Brittany smiled at the sight, unraveling the foil that encapsulated her second breakfast burrito. The girl tore in like someone who hadn't eaten in ages. It was an ugly scene, primarily because more meat, cheese, and an array of condiments flew in opposite directions than landed in her mouth.

"Do tell," I began, trying to hold my own meal down, "has your entire high school career been that eventful?"

She shook her head, grinning all the while. "Never showed up long enough to make it a career, let alone eventful," Brittany casually pointed out. "Maybe this time around will be different."

It made me uneasy to think that the girl was already making plans for herself. That she was hopeful about this being a long-term ordeal, though I'd figured she'd take off within the first month. Whatever the case was, I was suddenly overcome with the drunkenly shame-filled need to be blatantly honest.

"Look, Brittany, you're not with us to act as a run-of-the-mill teenager," I admitted, though she was probably already well aware. "The only reason you're here is because my mother needs something—_someone_—to keep her occupied. She needs to fill some gaping void, and you seem plenty fit for the position."

Brittany dipped a French fry into her chocolate milkshake. She then crammed all of it into her mouth, only to repeat the motion. All of this was followed by a nod. "And you?"

"And me, what?" I asked, situating myself on the backed-in vehicle's trunk.

She dragged a wrist across her chin. "What gaping void are you trying to fill?"

The question was insulting, as were many of the ones she'd been asking as of late. All artful insinuations; none allowing their target a chance to defend themselves. I'd come to expect the method from Maribel, but when the sly allegations fell from a complete stranger's mouth, my blood instantly began to boil. I was enraged to the point of utter silence.

With enough time's passing, she picked up on my belligerent fury. And instead of trying to abet the situation, Brittany did nothing but reword the libel. "Some use sex, substances, or gambling to make the days seem shorter. Others make it by via mundane, ritual tasks," she explained. "At the end of the day, though, twenty-four hours is simply too much for many people to handle. And though I can't quite place _why _or _what _makes that time so daunting for you, I can see that you _definitely _fall into that category."

Rather than act like a cliché asshole—or an asshole at all, for that matter—I allowed a swig of newly restored warm beer to course through my veins. "I'm just an extremely bored individual," I answered pretty honestly.

"Then this next little while should prove to be quite the pleasant surprise."

I pretended not to care or hear the girl, far too intoxicated for critical undertakings. A flash of light then rippled across the early, still darkened sky, and Brittany flinched like a woman possessed. "Ironic," I meticulously hummed, "coming from the girl who's been nothing but flashy, putting on her acts and what not." She cocked an eyebrow, and I went out on a limb. "Because the jig's up. Because never before have I witnessed someone respond so coyly to the news of a dead family member."

Her demeanor settled into itself as another stream of accentuated light appeared above us. This time, though, it was accompanied by a lowly grumble and even louder aftershock. I tensed and instinctively, two fingers found their ways into my ears.

Brittany chuckled. "Ironic," she chided, "coming from the girl who's been nothing but noise, making outlandish accusations and what not."

_A stalemate._

"Why do I get the feeling that you're still convinced I'm going to chop you into little pieces while you sleep?"

"Aside from the fact that you've been extorting my past transgressions as a means of acquiring shelter?" I quickly fired back.

She giggled. "You know, if this is _ever _going to work, we'll need an open dialogue."

I burped, crushed a dulled silver can, and chunked it over the steel barrier. "And this is considered?"

"Witty banter, at best."

"It's speaking."

"It's avoiding the questions you've been dying to ask," Brittany sharply replied, smile disappearing. Much like the night before, she sounded ice cold.

The problem with trying to resolve any conflict between us was that I demanded answers but had nothing to prompt them. I vied for the great reveal but dared not to endure the buildup. It took a great deal of time, but the most elegant means of reaching my intended target finally surfaced.

"Find. So if you've become such an expert in living minimally," I eventually noted, "in _clearly _surrendering all to so little…"

"Why end up on your doorstep, asking for more?" she concluded, snatching the words from as deeply as my windpipe extended.

Ashamed, I nodded.

The girl—or woman, as some might have it—appeared unfazed. She struck me as the type who passed judgment about as quickly as the postal service delivered your mail. With no real motivation in the effort, though she would eventually complete the task. Part of me considered abandoning the sheer act of biding time, and instead to meet the punch as rapidly as possible. Part of me wished that she might go ahead and see myself for all that I am not, so much so that we could drop this charade altogether.

But like I said, Brittany had other, far more slowly unfolding plans. "You hit me with your car, Santana Lopez. You pummeled me in the street, and thus had every opportunity to flee," she said like a well-practiced speech. "But you didn't. Instead, you chose to stay." The girl sighed. "It was refreshing."

"Being run over?"

Her eyes narrowed in. I was only joking, of course, but she took the matter seriously. And without so much as skipping a beat, included, "Having someone stick around."

It felt like a shot to the gut, and I had nothing more to mention. So we sat, and we sat, and we sat some more. The gleam of sun coming from just overhead was in a full effect, and our respective meals were soon withered into mere crumbs. Thankfully, I hadn't made much of a habit out of eating, because at that point, my appetite was all but existent.

"What about that surprise you previously spoke of?" I asked, trying to divert the conversation somewhere less grueling. "The one you vowed would free me of my doldrums?"

Brittany reached for the small cooler in between our pair, retrieved a sweating can, and popped its top. It then floated to my hand. "Depends," she hummed, "on how well you can keep a secret."

I was intrigued, but only for as long as it too Brittany to cross her legs and rock gently.

Then, in an unsolicited explanation with both excited rises and remorseful descents in tone, Brittany managed to provide the rough, uncut version of her life's story. Given up at birth by teenage parents, the blonde grew up in a series of foster homes. Her interim parents often came from the pool of "whichever pair of lowlifes needed the welfare check most," as she so elegantly deduced.

Two or three months ago, she flew the coop. Quickly landing a job at the local convenience store, she purchased a P.O. Box and thus squatted in a former neighbor's backyard (i.e. the dead one).

Hearing all of these details wasn't nearly as jaw-dropping as the manner in which she delivered them. Like some sort of adrenaline junkie, Brittany spoke of her past like it was a trophy to be one; like she would someday come full circle and catch back up with an old lifestyle, and that ultimate end-all would be her final pit stop.

She was in it for the chase, and I couldn't help but be grateful that my specialty, as Maribel often pointed out, was in running.

A drizzle began to fall in that moment. Brittany didn't flinch as the newest intrusion took refuge all around us. In the dirt, along my vehicle's front windshield, and across our faces. I stood my ground as well, staring at the blonde who still somehow managed to appear magical even in a setting that reeked of an unnerving dreariness.

"You know, I'm not a fan of being deceived or conned, but I can also respect a necessary… _hustle_, if you will," I said out of the blue, most likely as a means of lessening the discomfort I felt. "Let's agree on one thing, though. If I pretend to be on board with all of _this_," I continued, motioning all around, "then there will be _no _more lying. We must both be up front one hundred percent."

She grinned slyly, like she knew the punchline to a joke no one had told. "Something tells me that all you and I will ever have are secrets."

"No way," I playfully insisted. "I'm far too abrupt a human being."

Again with the devilish eyebrow. "Says the girl who spends most nights as someone else. Isn't that right, Ms. Cruz?"

I remained silent as Brittany hopped from her perch and shuffled around the vehicle. Her head rested atop both stacked arms, just above the passenger side door. She inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering at our surroundings. "Who knows? Maybe one day, we'll actually reach this fantasy land of open honesty that you speak of."

"And until then?" I called out, not bothering to look back.

"We _pretend_," she hummed in just above a whisper, "as though we're already there." A breeze flowed past. I didn't respond. "So what do you say, Santana Lopez Rosario Cruz?" Brittany whimsically offered. "Pretend with me? Pretend with me for so long that it begins to feel like the real thing?"

She wanted us to act like children, to play a made-up game of pretend. I considered what a testament to her character it might be, but my mind came up blank. She was a harmless person, and I was the unfortunate soul who just so happened to be in the vicinity when her niceties kicked into overdrive.

I didn't consider what her last comment meant, but instead reveled in what a change of pace would do. It wouldn't be difficult, as I'd been pretending damn near my entire life. As a child in dance class, I drifted about, thinking myself to be the prima ballerina. Growing up, I kissed boys and their rough faces, each a declaration to the façade I was so fearful of being broken. And now, as a bumbling buffoon of eighteen years, I floated in between slimy people, consumed the fruits of their slimy labors, and hoped like hell that whatever was wrong with me could be pretended away.

Essentially, Brittany Pierce wasn't asking much at all. She was merely challenging me to be myself.

It felt odd, suddenly accepting the only truth to be that we would inevitably lie to each other time and time again. More peculiar, though, was how comforting this fact felt. There was a certain freedom in knowing that, no matter what I did, our situation would end as all other acts of deception did—with pain and inescapable suffering.

Maybe I wanted to experience that kind of emotion. After all, it had proven itself nonexistent, just as all others had. _She's asking my permission_, I thought. _This girl is requesting that I give the green light on a road that leads nowhere but down._

In hindsight, agreeing to her proposal probably wasn't my best idea.

One of us was going to end up either heartbroken or in the dirt.

My heart wasn't made of glass. It wasn't meant to be shattered. And I certainly wasn't fit for being ruthlessly ground into the earth.

But then again, aside from all predestined circumstances—I, Santana Lopez, had never been one to make good choices.


End file.
